9 Times
by run.dog.run
Summary: Collection of drabbles and oneshots. [varous characters, various themes] [rated for safety]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Naruto or anything pertaining to the anime or manga. The characters, places, etc… are not mine, nor do I lay any claim on them. This is not an attempt to infringe on any rights or copyrights, as this is purely for entertainment.

Authors Note: A series of drabbles, each dealing, in some way, with dependency and/or need. (The first of which were written while listening to far too much Damien Rice and Ben Harper. Geeze.) Once again… these are probably crap, but, well, I love writing... so, don't expect me to stop just because I have no talent. :)

Warnings: May contain some 'adult' themes or language, possible yaoi or even –gasp– mild sandcest. Possibly other… things that are not suitable for, uh, certain people. I can't be more specific than that.

Title: '9 Times'

Author: run dog run

Series: Naruto

Characters/Pairings: various

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9 Times 

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"Outside you, there is no place to go."

1)

Theme: Sleeping Alone  
Characters: Kankuro, Temari, Shikamaru (ShikaTem, one-sided KanTem)

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When he wakes, his hand finds empty space beside him.

His fingers catch on cold sheets and air, the fine, soft grit of sand grinds beneath his fingertips like tangible emptiness. Sticky eyes pry open to darkness, and his breath draws in painfully after hours of shallow breathing. His fingers ball into a fist against the bed and he draws his clenched hand to his chest; his lungs fill slowly, push his ribs out to meet his fist.

The echo of quiet strains against his ears like wind, hard and heavy and painful; and so he rolls to his back, pushing at the soft linen of the sheets – just to hear the whisper of skin against cloth. _It's too quiet_. His eyes find the ceiling, distant and shadowed above him, and he tries to find a shape there, in the twisting patterns, to keep him company.

His feet find the cool tile of the floor before he can think of moving, and he takes a moment – back bent and hands on his knees – to allow his mind to catch up to his body. Almost, he shakes as he rises; almost, he hesitates as he crosses to the door. His fingers claw as they touch the wood, and as he leans, his weight sends the door swinging silently inward. The darkness beats him into the windowless room, and he pauses as his eyes strain through the distance to her door.

He can hear her breath hitch, catch, burst forth in a rush; can hear _his_ too.

His feet are quiet on the floor, soft steps on a dust of fine sand, and only more than a few careful footsteps bring him to the other side of the room. Pale light glitters in the flecks of gold that sweep at the base of the door, swims in from underneath to shine through the small crack. His toes dig softly into the iridescent granules, leave tracks in the dust – his forehead falls against the door as he traces trough the sand.

He can hear her breath draw in, rush out; can hear _him_ call her name.

His fingers trace invisible lines down the flat plane, his nails a quiet whisper against the wood; they find the edge, hook there and he holds his breath as he pulls. The delicate waver of lantern light slips through the crack, paints a line down his left side – his eyes narrow against the glow. Through the blur he can see a tangle of limbs, dark and light and gold and sharp black, and there's no empty space.

The echo of breath is harsh in his ears, hard and heavy and painful; and so he holds his breath, deep in his chest – just so he doesn't have to hear his lungs shudder. _It's too loud_. His eyes find the arch of her back, the curve of her neck, tense muscle in fluid movement, and he tries not to let her company make him feel so alone.

His feet move of their own accord, his heels grinding in the scattering of sand – fists clenched and eyes closed – as he backs away from the light. Almost, he shakes as he moves; almost, he hesitates to leave. His stomach clenches as he stumbles backward, and as he leans, his weight settles against stone. The shadows catch him alone and backed against the wall, the tiles cold and hard against his skin, and he lets free his breath.

Her sigh plays duet to his own; and _his_ follows a moment later.

His feet whisper in the thin layer of sand, each step silent, and only a few quick strides bring him to the door at the other side of the room. The fogged-glass window sets his white sheets aglow, the small moon and street lanterns barely shining through, and he curls into the cool blankets with the sand. His fingers trace softly across the linen, find fine, soft grains – his eyes fall closed as he traces through the dust.

When he falls asleep, his hand is stretched into the empty space beside him.


	2. Chapter 2

2)

Theme: Waking Dreams  
Characters: Gaara, Kankuro, Temari (Sibling affection.)

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The bloom of darkness greeted his pale eyes as they drifted open; his lids fluttered, parted for ghostly green, and his blurred vision caught the shadowed curve of a shoulder. The soft whisper of breath measured the seconds like a clock, and Gaara allowed himself to calm and match the rhythm.

His first nightmare had been easy, but every dream that followed had been comfortless confusion.

To his left, the opaque pane of window glass glowed with early morning's promise of sunrise, and Gaara wondered if the strain in his eyes was normal. Sleep had become a prison of a different kind; a loss of control that forced him to swim through the churning sea of his past. He was tossed and turned in the waves, drawn under by the current -something akin to regret – and at the bottom he found those that loved him best; chained to his wrists like prisoners, and condemned to eternity at his side. His brother, his sister; both shaking with the strain of resignation. They had, by blood and by honor, been bound to a monster.

His first nightmare had been for them, and every dream that followed.

Gaara's hand stretched out before him, pale and thin, and his fingers brushed that soft curve in the darkness. Warmth tingled against his cool fingertips and a weak sigh slipped from easy lungs, rounded the edge of flesh and bone and spread out in the quiet. It had been his brother that had forgiven him first; forgiven him for being a vessel, for being a coffin – his brother had been the first to tell him that he could love him now that he was free.

The shoulder settled under his fingers, folded down to the sheet, and the flat plane of chest stretched under his hand. The curve of a cheek caught in the light and Gaara let his eyes follow the line across surprisingly gentle features. His hand lowered, met with flesh and brushed softly over skin moist with sweat; his fingers traced thin lines across muscle, smeared the tiny beads of moisture into glittering lines. It had been his brother that had loved him first; loved him enough to keep him company, keep him safe – his brother that curled into his bed next to him and offered him respite from the nightmare.

His first nightmare had drowned his brother, and every dream that followed.

Dark eyes opened to meet with pale green, distant and calm across the small space. Gaara allowed his hand to fall, press more firmly against the warmth of his brother's chest; he could feel the rise and fall of ribs, know the easy sift of breath – his brother was not drowning. It had been his brother that had first given him permission to try, to attempt to learn – his brother that had first allowed him to reach out.

His first nightmare had left him alone, and every dream that followed.

A soft laugh echoed in the stillness, shattered the quiet, and movement sent dust dancing in the dim glow of light. A sun kissed hand stretched across his brother's pale chest, fingers skidding across the softness of the warm skin, and found Gaara's own. The thin digits threaded with his, loose and gentle with sleepy awkwardness, pulled and pressed down against his brother chest. It had been his sister, next, that had forgiven him – following his brother's grace. His sister, next, had forgiven him for chaining them, for damning them.

The red of sunrise peeked in at the bottom of the window, painted yellow into the gold of his sister's hair as she moved to settle her chin on their brother's shoulder, and Gaara traced the tired smile that stretched her lips. Her fingers tightened against his, his brother's chest rose to lift them in rhythm with each breath, and Gaara let his eyes slip closed to the morning. It had been his sister, next, that had called him brother, called him family – his sister, next, that had curled into the bed next to their brother so he'd have something to hold onto.

His first nightmare had given him something to lose, and every dream that followed.

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AN: I know, I know… more crap. :) And there is more to come. I have seven more to add! Not all will be about the sand sibs. I'm planning on doing one for each of my favorite characters – however, this doesn't mean there won't be more than one from any single character. Eh…


	3. Chapter 3

3)

Theme: Red

Characters: Kankuro, Gaara

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The sky above Hi no Kuni is vastly different from that of Kaze no Kuni.

In Konoha, fat grey rain clouds sometimes hang heavily in the sky, easy against the steel blue backdrop; ever ready to quench the meager thirst of the life that scurries beneath a heaven content to give. In Suna, the sky and its harsh red king only take; only drain and burn and glare down unforgiving and bright. And where the warmth and softness lingers in the night in Konoha, in the desert the night is just as harsh as the day, and just as cruel in its absence of mercy – the empty chill just as hungry for what ever you try so desperately to keep inside.

And Kankurou supposes that his brother is much like the pitiless desert that reared him.

Another harsh red king that only knows how to take.

While the sun bakes the sand and its great thirst drains the desert of its tears and sweat and blood, Gaara does the same. He presses in with his gaze, looks too deep and steals away what he can; drinks it all in to satisfy his own thirst. When the sun dips below the horizon, abandons everything to the nights hunger, Gaara's own starvation drives him. His prying fingers and needy lungs pull and draw and take just as much.

And Kankuro supposes that if he can love his desert home, despite its nature, that he can love his brother too.

And so, when Gaara comes to take what he can from his brother, Kankurou lets him.

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AN: This has been done before. Yep. But, I had to do it too. Call it hive mind, or whatever, but it seems to be a recurring theme in sandcest. It also has the most possibility. Gaara is starved for love, and doesn't really properly know how to seek it, and so inevitably, he just takes. Not necessarily in a cruel way, or painful, but just bluntly. Unromantic, improper, so consumed with that want that he is simply needy.

Also, I've decided that all of these will be about the sandsib's, because lately, every time I write, it seems to be about them.


	4. Chapter 4

4)

Theme: Black Blizzard

Characters: Temari

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Temari broker her fight against the dying sandstorm, paused a moment to glance upward at the cloudless sky, let the wind whip her hair and sting her cheeks with its sharp, sandy kisses. She was tired of fighting against the winds, pushing through the whipping sand; her eyes burned and her lungs heaved, her skin was nearly numb from the onslaught of the tormenting grains. Above her, the sky barely peeked through; the pale color was lost in the storm, but the light was as harsh as ever.

Her eyes narrowed against the glare, green growing as the black pin of pupil shrank away from the brightness. Through the weakening samiel, her eyes found the broad strokes of gold that spread their way overhead; a reflection of the sand that rolled its way across the ground below. In the distance, the horizon was cut with stone - as glittering and copper as the wake of the sun, as warm as sand and sky and dusty air. It drained her, made her feel tired; weak and empty and dry like over-fired clay.

Temari's nails dragged along her skin, sketching lines in the powder fine sand that coated her skin in soft layers; it was pink and moist and sore beneath the yellowed grime. She ground her teeth and focused on the mild sting as she tore at her skin, used the dull pain to renew her awareness. She still felt brittle, worried that if the storm picked up again, she would fall and shatter across the dunes.

The sand pushed at her back once again, stung at the backs of her legs and crawled beneath her clothes. She shuddered at the feel; it reminded her of her youngest brother, reminded her of blood drenched sand that wormed its way around its victims at his command – he had changed, but she could still remember the fear that strummed through her every time she had glanced into his pale, soulless eyes. Temari shifted her vision, glanced ahead and over the shifting expanse of desert. The corners of her eyes creased with strain as she pushed her vision through the sand that feathered the edges of the wind – home peeked over the edge of the wandering dunes.

A growl came at her ear, too close and loud, and she turned sharply – crashed softly into her brother's chest; his hand found her elbow and pulled it tight against his steady frame. Her eyes closed in irritation and her teeth ground against the sand that had worked its way past her tight lips and into the softness of her mouth; silently, she pleaded with the wind to change direction. Calloused hands released her arm and Temari had to fight for footing in the shifting earth.

"Almost home." Kankurou's voice was at her ear again, soft this time, breath tickling moistly at her jaw, and she shuddered against her brothers words. A hand tangled into hers, pulled, and she was dragged forward slowly; head down and back straining in a curve to duck the sand. Her brother's fingers tightened against her palm as he led her down the sloping hill of moving ground, and she borrowed his balance as they slipped their way down the slant. When they reached the bottom, he dragged his fingers from her grip, and then her hand was free.

Temari's fingers closed on air, tightened against her own palm, and she was suddenly aware of how firmly she had been holding on. Her fingers curled into a fist and she drew a careful breath into her lungs, moved to catch up to her brother. Her feet pushed dents into the thick sand as she walked, disappeared almost as quickly as she lifted her foot; the unyielding wind swirled them away into the desert's own chaotic patterns - it was as if she had never been there at all.

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AN: There is more to this, but it didn't seem to fit quite right. Also, I had apparently stopped writing in the middle of a sentence, and so it didn't have an ending. How does that happen, anyway? Regardless, I think ending here, instead of having 6 more mini-paragraphs of nonsense that didn't quite have the same voice, is better anyway. Hope it's at least a fair try. BTW – 'Black Blizzard' is a song by Jeff Beal, an accompanying lullaby for a sandstorm. (I wonder if anyone else watched 'Carnivale' and fell in love. :D) Also, black blizzard is a term for a sandstorm, if you wondered at all.


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